


Riding the Savage Cobbles

by Sholio



Series: Free of Surface Ties [24]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter keeps secrets of his own. (Continuing the adventures of the White Collar characters in Fallen London.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding the Savage Cobbles

Peter stretched his aching legs as he stepped down from the velocipede. Neal and Elizabeth both thought the contraption was hilarious (Neal teased; El merely smiled, hiding her amusement behind a lace-gloved hand) and Peter had to admit that he probably cut a bizarre figure, pedaling furiously with his blue Constable's coat flapping behind him. But no footpad could outrun him, and he'd even pedaled down hansom cabs and Clay Sedans, though not without some cost in back pain. Sometimes he thought he was going to shake apart as the contraption jolted over the cobblestones.

He reeked of smoke, ached from head to foot, and his uniform was splattered with mud, blood, and even less pleasant substances. All in all, it had been another typical day on the Velocipede Squad. He'd collared a few miscreants, and he'd also done a few things he didn't plan to mention to El.

Peter was standing on a slippery slope these days, and he knew it; he could feel the grains of sand trickling beneath his boots, carrying him incrementally downwards. The general culture of the Constables was one of random drunken brutality, and the more he dealt with London's street criminals, the more he had to struggle not to succumb to it himself. He'd deposit a thug, robber or murderer at Concord Square in the morning, only to see them back on the street by lunchtime; it was mostly the poor and uneducated who lacked the resources to bribe their way out of a swift trip to New Newgate. At least if he beat the stuffing out of the miscreant on the way back to the Square, they'd suffer _some_ penalty for their crimes.

Or at least it made a good justification to salve his bruised conscience. Peter rubbed guiltily at his scuffed knuckles. This particular thief had been rolling drunks for their purses, and often stabbing them into the bargain. Peter had caught him red-handed, and he'd deserved a good kicking.

_You never used to think that way._

He forced his thoughts away from it. Right now all he wanted was a stiff drink and a quiet evening at home. El was most likely working on the late edition of the paper, or off in Veilgarden with her Bohemian friends. He'd have the place to himself.

As he dragged the velocipede over the cobbles, a figure stepped out of the shadows between two buildings. Peter stiffened. The individual had blended perfectly into the dark alley because they were wearing the black uniform of the Special Constables.

Peter never had much to do with the Special Constables. He didn't really consider them Constables at all, to be honest; they were more on the order of spies or enforcers, the paid dogs of the Masters. They weren't down in the streets, among the spilled beer and blood. Most of the other Constables felt likewise.

But as this one stepped towards him, he saw that it was a young woman, with short-cropped hair. She reminded him oddly of El, or perhaps of Neal, just slightly.

"Constable Burke," she said, and dipped her head with a faint, sardonic smile. "Do you have a minute?"

"That depends," Peter said. "Who are you?"

The smile widened; it was sharp enough to cut. "Some call me the Last Honest Constable."

 

***

 

Peter bought her a pint at the Medusa's Head. They both slouched in a corner. She looked as tired as he felt, but her eyes were bright and intense.

"I know what people think of the Special Constables," she said softly, nursing her drink. "In fairness, it's not untrue. But we also deal with the hard things, the things that honest Londoners shouldn't need to know about. Wells, red honey, fire-letters." Her mouth twisted. "Or I do. The others concentrate on the Ministry's work. But I've heard of you, Peter. I could really use someone who feels as I do, that the job is more than an excuse to bully honest people and line your pockets at the city's expense. You can do a lot more good in the black uniform than you can riding around the city on that toy."

"I'll have to think about it," Peter said.

He didn't say no outright, and he thought about this as he walked home, dragging the velocipede, too exhausted to pedal. By the time he turned the corner to the cottage (the windows were dark; he'd been right that El was out tonight) he found that he'd decided, tentatively, to accept her offer. 

Normally he would never make such a big, potentially life-changing decision without talking it over with El, and perhaps with Neal as well. But ... things had changed, lately. El, he knew, was keeping a whole host of secrets of her own -- regarding the Game, regarding the revolutionary meetings that she probably thought he didn't know she'd been attending. And Neal, of course, had always played his cards close to the vest.

Perhaps, Peter thought, it was time to do things the London way. Perhaps it was time he had some secrets of his own.


End file.
